


Ice Cream

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Fanart, Fluff, Friendship/Love, I need some happies after that finale, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Series 3, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, before I was broken and scarred by s3, kriskenshin, so here's something I wrote last month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock said nothing, of course. What could he say? Either John would learn to trust him again. Or he wouldn’t. It was painful—the idea that John might always look at him like that, but he tucked the thought away, as he did all such discomforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Cream

It was the little things that changed when Sherlock died and came back. Sure, his return was full of angst and confusion, anger and resentment, but John got over it … eventually. A well-placed punch and a night of explanations over a shared bottle of Lagavulin settled the worst of it. It wasn’t long before they fell into old habits: cases to be solved, arguments over the entrails in the fridge, and jokes at Anderson’s expense. Achingly mundane for Sherlock. Aching, because in spite of how familiar it all was, there remained a certain artifice to everything John did. Discomfort masked as attentiveness—the too-bright smile, the too-quick retort. As though John were only playing at intimacy while waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
  
He watched Sherlock in a way he’d never done before. Hovering close to him at crime scenes as if afraid to lose sight of him for even a moment. Making up petty excuses for Sherlock to join him on trips to Tesco or the dry cleaners. Sherlock hated that flicker of surprise in John’s eyes, the one that appeared each morning as he tromped downstairs and found the detective still there, reading the newspaper in his dressing gown or pouring a cup of coffee. In the most casual of circumstances—sitting watching telly or having a cuppa—John couldn’t keep himself from watching Sherlock with a wary sort of crinkle that had become a permanent fixture around his eyes.  
  
Sherlock said nothing, of course. What could he say? Either John would learn to trust him again. Or he wouldn’t. It was painful—the idea that John might always look at him like that, but he tucked the thought away, as he did all such discomforts.  
  
It was a peculiar sort of day mid-spring six months after Sherlock’s return. Sherlock was in a giddy mood. He’d managed to thwart Mycroft’s latest stratagem while arranging for a cleverly-efficient attack on the man’s diet … involving beer, brats, and lederhosen.  
  
 _See how he likes the German ambassador now,_ Sherlock mused with a smirk.  
  
The rain had stopped for a moment, sun filtering happily through the clouds, so Sherlock suggested they go for a walk. He needed to expend some of the triumphant energy bursting under his skin. John eyed a sweets trolly as they wandered toward Paddington Street Gardens, and Sherlock bought him a double scoop of ice cream.  
  
“What’s this for, then?”  
  
Sherlock snorted and paid the attendant. “Come now, John, you’re hardly subtle.”  
  
“Ta,” John said as he took the cone, licking a long stripe with a delighted twinkle in his eyes.  
  
They found a bench and sat watching passersby, comfortable in their silence. Sherlock was perusing _The Times_ ’ crime section on his mobile while John fought the melting affects of the sun when it occurred to Sherlock that something was missing. He patted his coat and found nothing amiss. He scanned his calendar for forgotten appointments. He took a mental catalogue of current experiments, but could remember nothing that might be in danger of burning the flat down, growing out of control, or tearing a hole through Mrs. Hudson’s floors.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
But that sense of _something_ not right lingered, tingling at the back of his neck and twisting in his stomach. He turned to John, the question half-formed, before he snapped his mouth shut in understanding. John’s profile, highlighted in gold, his tongue snaking out for a leisurely lick, and his eyes … his eyes on the horizon. Strain gone, wary crinkle gone, hawk-like focus on all things Sherlock—gone.  
  
Sherlock smiled, a ridiculous grin he would tuck away as soon as John hinted at turning his head. But John didn’t turn his head. For the first time in months, John let himself _just be_. With Sherlock.  
  
So the grin stayed put until the last of the ice cream was gone, and the former army doctor smacked his lips and stood.  
  
“Home then, Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes, John. Home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by Kriskenshin's lovely artwork: http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/post/70363612287  
> She's a wonderful artist and a truly sweet person. In all honesty, I've found a tremendous amount of inspiration from her work and fic challenges. Posting this now because I could use a little time in my Johnlock fantasy land.


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